


Sometimes A Wild God

by jinglebell



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Action, Anal Sex, Asra does not want to be left out!, Content Warning: Blood, Cunnilingus, F/M, FILTHY EXPLICIT SMUT, Fingering, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Inanna is the ultimate wingman, Lucio gets in the way of everything, M/M, Massive Cock, Multi, OH MY GOD SO MUCH FLUFF!!, Polyamorous Triad, Romance, Size Kink, Slow-ish burn, Threesome, Vaginal Sex, cw: descriptions of violence, handjobs, happy ending!, primal play sex, sharing body heat to survive, size queen, some very angsty moments, this fic was processed in a facility that contains common fanfiction tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell
Summary: Unpredictable wisp that he may be, Muriel and the Apprentice both place their trust in Asra. But what will happen when the Apprentice begins to see the cut of Muriel's true character? What will happen when he comes to understand them in return? This is not a story about jealousy or broken hearts.The focus is the romance between Muriel/Apprentice. I consider Muriel/Asra is already implied strongly enough in canon. (This particular nameless apprentice uses they/them pronouns, and happens to have female equipment.)





	1. Honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite poem is called 'Sometimes A Wild God', by Tom Hirons. That poem, and basically the entire Of Monsters and Men discography, are the two energetic inspirations for this fic... (apologies to Hirons for using his poem title for an erotic fanfiction).
> 
> Need a Muriel route update. I'm kind of scared the devs will peter off with his story once the first three are complete -- somebody reassure me? 
> 
> Thank you, ArcaneSpice, for beta'ing this! Your feedback is critical and makes this story better. Updates Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. The smut is already written and on its way to those who wait ;)

The next time you see Muriel, you are up to your elbows in a bush of witch hazel. It takes a second for the myrrh to jog your memory of him - a second in which his expression turns resigned.

“Hello, Muriel,” you say.

He blinks and does not reply. You wonder how long he has been hulking there in the shadow of the tree line.

“Do you need something?” You ask kindly.

“...No.”

“Ah, just visiting? It’s good to see you again. Looks like your wound has healed up.”

He huffs and says nothing. His eyes are so green.

“I’m out here to collect stock for the shop,” you offer.

The sprig you are hunting for is too high up on the plant for you to reach. You feel a bit silly flapping your arm about in front of Muriel. Might be best to skip this one.

Muriel slopes over. He leans in to snap off the too-high branch for you. You are thrown into the shadow of his massive body, inhaling the surprisingly mild musk of him. The thick swell of his pectoral muscle ripples as he stretches up, and the flat pink disc of his nipple is inches from your mouth.

Empress, almighty. What a hunk.

Muriel steps back. Drops the branch into your palm. You look up at him and wonder if you should coax him to stay. You must be looking too long, because his expression turns a bit suspicious.

“What.”

* * *

  ** _[Ask him to stay.]_**

_Let him go._

* * *

 

“You know this forest better than I do. If you helped me, I bet I’d be home before nightfall. What do you think about that?”

“...”

Time to reveal your trump card. “And to be honest, I’m afraid of running into that goat again.”

Muriel’s eyes narrow. “I won’t let that happen.”

You flash him a grin. You have two fetching dimples in your cheeks that only appear when you are smiling. “If you’re with me, I know I’ll be safe. Shall we?”

Muriel is blushing again, easily flustered by even the simplest flirtation. You reach for your heavy basket, but without a word he leans down to scoop it up onto a broad shoulder before you can balance it on your hip.

“... what do you need.”

“Agrimony!”

He immediately slopes toward a rabbit trail off the beaten path. You trot after him, and at first it feels awkward. Muriel guides you silently to each plant on your list. He knows this forest well. If he intended to say something to you, it is forgotten. During this time, you experiment with different conversational topics. He dislikes talking about Vesuvia. He likes talking about animals. He dislikes talking about modern industry. He likes talking about the wonders of the natural world.

Harvesting takes a couple hours.

The scenery is painted pink and gold. As the sun dips, you are nearly back where you started. You’ve collected everything on your list -- except for knotweed. You fret. That one is always tricky to find. You and Muriel proceed to have a contest to see who can make the impending departure more awkward. You win when you catch wind of a beloved fragrance.

“Oh! Honeysuckle!” you exclaim rather suddenly, startling Muriel as you hike up your shalwar and wade through the tall grasses toward the smell.

“Here we are! Oh, look.”

There is a veritable wall of honeysuckle here, erupting out of the ground rampantly and spilling its tiny white cups all over the place. You may not have your memories, but your nose knows that this flower is special to you. You hear slow footsteps following you. You turn, a bloom between your lips and a sparkle in your eye as you suck the nectar out the bottom. He stares.

You raise your eyebrows and shake a branch at him. He snorts. The absolute _tiniest_ hint of a not-frown appears at the corners of his mouth -- so subtle you might have missed it. He shakes his head, no. You suck a bit more nectar and Muriel makes no impatient gesture to interrupt. His energy is gentle and mild, the prickly suspicion of before thawed by your shared errand.

“Muriel, I appreciate your help today,” you gaze up the endless length of his body to meet his eyes.

“I know the city isn’t your favorite place, but I want you to know that you are welcome in my shop. Any time, open invitation.”

He looks away, throat bobbing. “...You’re welcome.”

The journey home is short, and spent indulgently daydreaming about Muriel’s abs. How in Hierophant’s name was his body still so cut? Living on eggs in a forest didn’t seem conducive to bulking up. He probably just won some genetic lottery.

When you throw open the shop door for business the next morning, there is a small bundle of knotweed on the doorstep.


	2. The Hermit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Tuesday, folks, and that means it's update time. If you're here for just the smut you're gonna have to stick around until the later chapters because I am ALL ABOUT building the romance right now. The stew you are making in this chapter is called domoda. It's a food that my Gambian uncle makes us and has a lot of sentimental value to this author.
> 
> Next update is this Thursday (updates Tues, Thurs, Sun).

Nadia’s quest notwithstanding, your life remains a simple one.

You quietly grieve your lost memories, but there is a certain freedom in ignorance. At least Asra just adores you. Whenever he is not away on one of his long absences, he fawns over you in a way that seems almost guilty. His eyes warmly follow when you interact with customers. One day he asks you to elope with him, to leave the burgeoning challenges of the city behind.

You decline.

There is too much at stake to abandon Vesuvia now. Disappointed in your choice, Asra resigns himself to supporting your magical development. You go to Nopal, where a swarm of ruby beetles is unleashed. Together you meet a major Arcana. The Magician leaves you with more questions than answers, and the taste of Asra’s sweet lips beneath yours. You befriend Portia. Become Nadia’s trusted confidante. You even develop a harmless little crush on charming, theatrical Doctor Devorak -- and your intuition tells you that he did not murder the Count.

When you aren’t assisting your friends, you are assisting others. You care for the stray cats. You read tarot for those who need guidance. You feed the street urchins, orphaned and hungry. When you can swing it, you roll up your sleeves and don your apron and get to cooking enormous quantities of food for the less fortunate members of the community. As much as you can afford while staying in the green.

Currently, you are pounding dough on the only table in the shop. A massive pot burbles on the too-small stovetop under the salamander’s watchful eye. This peanut stew dish, like the honeysuckle, was something Asra did not have to teach. Somehow your hands and nose remember, and it is this recipe that is most popular amongst the orphaned children. Caramelized onions, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, and rich groundnuts substitute for meat. You don't have the heart to slaughter the market chickens.

“Could you please heat the kiln too?” you ask the salamander. It nods its tiny spotted head. You had begged Asra to let you make a clay dome kiln. Bread was the most economical meal in Vesuvia, and all the kiln had cost was time. Time and a great deal of space in the kitchen. You rinse and dry your hands, slouch at the glass countertop to wait for the kiln to heat.

Asra’s tarot catches your eye; you shuffle and draw.

 

* * *

_Choose the first card._

**_[Choose the second card.]_ **

_Choose the third card._

* * *

 

The Hermit. Interesting. You wonder if Muriel is well -- and as soon as the thought crosses your mind, there is a gentle thump on the door. You’re already grinning even before you let him in.

“Muriel! The cards just told me you’d be here! Welcome.”

He stares down at you uncomfortably. For a moment you wonder if he is going to turn right back around and leave. The door squeaks closed behind him; you wave him to one of the two chairs you can offer. “Well. You’ve got good timing. I’m tied to the stove today.”

“...I can see that,” Muriel says, quietly taking in the scene. Flour, heat, stew, the Hermit card face up on the counter, and… a salamander. He slowly sits down. He has a staring contest with the salamander. It wins.

“Thank you for the knotweed,” you say.

You roll up dough balls, slap them firmly against the hot dome where they flatten and sizzle. Muriel is anxious to be here, probably trying to come up with a reason for the visit even though he doesn’t need to. You keep your voice light and casual, rescuing this man of few words from the responsibility of figuring out what to say.

“How is Inanna?”

There it is again! The secret wrinkle that appears at the corner of his mouth. A not-frown. “She is happy. When Inanna is happy... I’m happy, too.”

“I like her too. Has Lucio given you any more trouble?”

“He hasn’t been in the forest as much.”

“That’s because he’s focusing on the Countess lately, I’m afraid. Are you allergic to peanuts?”

“I— I didn’t come here to eat your food.”

“You haven’t even tried it yet!” you inject pretend offense into your voice. The first batch is done; you pluck up the crisp-bubbled flatbreads and stack them on the table. “Eat, Muriel. You’re skin and bones!”

This makes him snort. He is the farthest thing from skin and bones and you both know it. The bowl you slide in front of him is the biggest one you and Asra have. He makes a conscientious effort not to look at it, and it reminds you of a dog that has been told not to lick up food that has fallen. Muriel seems to have a complicated relationship with food. You pick up a flatbread, tear it, and dunk the end into the stew for him.

Muriel gives in and starts to eat after all. “... you’re making a lot.”

“It’s for the little ones at the docks. They like it mild.”

You’ve surprised him. He looks like he is going to say something more but seems to think better of it, and goes back to stew. You watch him, chin pillowed in your palm.

He is spectacularly proportioned. Height aside, his shoulders are absurdly broad, but the metal collar and chain sully what you suspect is a handsome curve of throat. His forearms are ropey with functional muscle, and you feel a dry lump forming in your throat. What would it feel like to dig your nails into those forearms while he pistoned into you? The intensity of the unexpected fantasy makes you inhale sharply, planting your hands on the countertop to catch your breath.

“... are you okay?” Muriel is standing up, coming over.

“Fine! Fine. I’m fine. Thank you. Do you want seconds?”

The rest of this visit is spent at the dock. You dish out food for the hoards of orphaned children doing their best to survive in a city that does not prioritize their wellbeing. Muriel seems to know every nook and cranny and secret hiding spot in this part of the city. Once they recover from the initial intimidation, the urchins take a shine to him. (It helps that he is giving them food.) That is when you see him smile for the first time. It is small, soft eyed and subtle, and one of the handsomest expressions you have ever seen.

You will remember that smile forever.

 


	3. Devil On Your Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello it is Thursday so here is the next chapter! (updates tues, thurs, sundays). This apprentice is living with PTSD, triggered by untamed fire.

The next time you encounter Muriel is under far less pleasant circumstances.

You run for your life, because an agent of the Devil is on your heels. You had gone deep into the dark forest in pursuit of a distant string of magic. But it is a trap. Now your own magic makes you fleet-footed. If Asra could see you now, he would be so proud of how you spin around trees, duck broken branches, and clear fallen logs as effortlessly as a deer in flight.

It isn’t enough.

A whip of red-white flame lassoes the clearing you are dashing across. You skid to a halt. The energy of this fire is toxic, swarming with poison and chittering. Except this is no candle, no hearth, no simple torch. The sight of these untamed flames awaken an existential terror inside you. Every nerve in your body is screaming to flee, but your traitorous body is paralyzed. You stare, trembling, into the cascading wall of flames. The fire is intimate somehow, threateningly familiar, a lost memory teetering on the cusp of being retrieved.

Except it doesn't come back to you.

You have a splitting headache.

Swallowing the sharp diamond that has formed in your throat, it is a Herculean effort to tilt your head and look over your shoulder, look at where Lucio stands watching you quietly. Hircine. He towers in the space between two trees, a slice of white in the blackness. Bracken snaps beneath cloven hooves. Except he has always been blessedly incorporeal. How can the ground crack beneath his weight?

His voice when it comes is a sour tenor. It is unsettling to see an animal’s mouth move like that of a human being. “You’re faster than I expected.”

“You’re more alive than I expected,” you reply shakily, keenly aware of the fire at your back.

He huffs a humorless laugh. “I’m not alive yet. Not properly. That’s where _you_ come in, noble little magician.”

“Go away, Lucio. Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Go back to being dead.”

Lucio laughs for real this time. “I won’t be like this for much longer. Soon you’ll understand what I mean. First things first -- I need a little something you took.”

He invades your personal bubble; his taloned hand unfurls toward your throat. You are even more afraid of the flames than you are his claw, and you are trapped.

Then Inanna comes hurtling out of trees like an arrow shot from a bow. She tears silently across the clearing and crashes into Lucio, sending them both skidding through the firewall. Lucio’s shriek is inhuman; Inanna’s teeth are sunk to the gum in the stump of his arm. Everything is happening so fast and the _fire--_

You look on in horror as Lucio grips Inanna by the scruff and rips her off of him. He throws her straight into the fire. The sound she makes is nightmarish and reverberates through the dark woods. He looks at you darkly through the firewall, flames flickering in his cruel eyes and illuminating the jagged spiral of his horns.

A ragged shout responds to the wolf’s pain. Footfalls are closing in from the tangle of trees.

Lucio sneers. He glides back into the shadows and the last thing to vanish are those awful arterial eyes. The supernatural fire peters out. You scramble to Inanna. She is rolling on the ground. Great swaths of fur are seared off, the skin below red and blistered. Your mind races. Time is of the essence. You can leave her and race to bring Asra. He is an excellent healer, more efficient than you, and definitely better than Muriel. He Except, finding Asra is always a gamble.

Alternatively, you can try to heal Inanna yourself. It will be a dangerous expenditure of effort on your part...

* * *

  ** _[Heal her.]_**

_Run to get help._

* * *

 You lay hands on sizzling flesh.

Inanna squeals and thrashes, maw snapping into the meat of your thigh. That probably is painful, but you can’t tell at the moment. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug. You draw upon magic. It swirls up, and you push it out through your palms. Distantly you are aware that Muriel has arrived, but that is not important right now because clean new fur is rippling over raw flesh, and your magic is overflowing. It spills out over the ground and heals the blighted earth. New sprouts spring up from the soil, what should have taken days of growth appearing in seconds.

Inanna releases your thigh at the same time as your magic recedes. Pain surges to fill the space. You tremble like a leaf, curling over your wound. You hear a very soft, high pitched keening sound -- and it dawns on some distant part of your mind that it is you who is making that sad little sound. You try to stem the blood with a shaking hand. Then another, much larger, hand appears. It moves yours aside, and applies pressure to your wound.

The last thing you feel before your vision blurs grey is the slide of hot skin against yours, and the dizzying sensation of being lifted up. Muriel’s arms are as solid as granite, and you

let

go.


	4. Heart of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muriel's hands may have cracked bone in the coliseum pits, but he has the gentlest touch you have ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's Sunday!! Happy update. Tomorrow is my birthday! Also if you lot would like to listen to this beautiful Spotify mixtape I found, [this is what I listen to while writing this story](https://open.spotify.com/user/1210675318/playlist/33H2fmNMFABkMr2byDEhay?si=hq9-7nkfSxSaNOuETGhEUw). Thanks to the person who made this mixtape <3

You wake up in Muriel’s bed.

The smell of him is concentrated here, leather, pine, myrrh and a rich masculine musk that goes straight to your clit. His scent is leather and warmth, quiet strength. Your wounded thigh sends a spark of pain shooting through your body like a static shock. Inanna’s tongue rasps your hand. Yellow eyes focus on you with feral intensity.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” you murmur, turning your palm up for her to smell. She licks that too. You remember how unhesitatingly she came to your aid. “You’re such a brave girl. You’re wonderful. Come here darling -- oof.”

Inanna takes up a lot of room on the bed. Her tail thumps against the pelts and she breathes her doggy breath down into your face. You feel wrung out and gross. Your hair is stuck to your face with sweat. Muriel wrings out a rag and comes to kneel by the edge of the bed. He pushes the enormous wolf head off of your chest to make room. There is a furrow in his brow, mouth downturned.

"You got bit."

“Lucio is getting bolder,” you tell him. “He had a physical form this time. He snapped bracken.”

“...That’s what Inanna says,” he said. Another pause. Muriel had a tendency to pause more often than he actually spoke. “She bit you pretty bad.”

Inanna's ears flick guiltily. 

“I would have bitten me too, given the circumstances!”

You swipe the rag over your face and neck, cleaning off the grime. Muriel’s hair gleams in the firelight, the contours of his body rimmed in gold. Oh, god. Why couldn’t he wear a shirt?

“What were you doing out here? It's dangerous.”

“I felt a magic pull from the forest and followed it. But it was a trap. Lucio came for me, and if it weren’t for this girl right here--” Inanna grunts, “I don’t know what he would have done.”

“Inanna saves me every day,” Muriel admits, and you both know he is not talking about rescue from literal monsters. Living alone in the forest must get desperately lonely.

You pull back the pelts to look at the wound. A hot wash of embarrassment flushes you when you realize that you are naked below the waist -- except for your utilitarian black scarf, wound in the most minimalist fashion. It was a style of undergarment Asra taught you. Sensual and sensible, just like him, although you always attest it looks better on little lithe Asra. You miss him a lot.

Muriel can't make eye contact. “... I had to get to your wound to dress it. Your pants are drying over there.”

Your thigh is angry and red, bandage already pink. “Oh. It _hurts_.”

Muriel flick his gaze up, and his eyes soften. He collects the steaming bucket of water and clean rags. It reminds you of when you first met.

“... That bandage needs to be changed.”

* * *

_Do it yourself._

**_[Let Muriel help you.]_ **

* * *

 

You are struck by an uncharacteristic burst of shyness. The only person who has touched you when you were this vulnerable is Asra. You feel small; he could really hurt you right now if he wanted to, and there was no way you could escape. The thought is paranoid and you know it, but pain warps common sense. You look away at the very fascinating wall and dip your chin. Weight sinks the bed beside you and he lifts up your thigh like it weighs nothing. The air is cool on your bare skin.

You flinch hard when the bandage is unrolled, peeled carefully away. Grumble lowly.

Muriel's expression is unreadable, but he rumbles sympathetically from deep within that barrel chest. For a man whose hands have snapped bone in the coliseum pits, he has the gentlest touch you have ever felt. Even now, at the worst time, your stupid traitor body wonders what those hands would feel like on another part of you. Muriel eases your freshly-bandaged leg to the mattress. He is staring into the middle distance, thumb pressing unconsciously into the thin bone of your ankle.

“What is it?” you ask gently.

“It’s Lucio,” rasps Muriel. “He’s getting stronger. He is dead. It isn't natural. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“ _We_ need to find a way to stop him, I agree. Nadia-- erm, the Countess has tasked me with investigating his murder. Your testimony that Julian is innocent has muddied the water, sweet heart. I am going to figure this out. I know I can put the pieces together… I just need to find them all.”

You have to put it all together. Who killed Lucio? What happened that dark night? Who was involved in the murder, and why was he back as a giant goat now? One thing is for sure. Lucio is causing more than just mischief at this point, and the danger to your community is escalating. Someone has to do something. Asra would rather flee than fight. Nadia is occupied trying to hold what is left of Vesuvia together. Julian is in hiding until his innocence is proven, and Portia is busy trying to distract Nadia from pursuing her brother. Muriel may hate Lucio as much as the others, but he will not leave the forest.

It has to be you.

For the sake of the city you love, your friends, the baker and the urchins and the street cats and all the wonderful beings that make up your world -- you must put an end to this nonsense before it metastasizes further. You sit up ramrod straight, quivering with determined energy. Lucio is putting all of Vesuvia at risk. Something catastrophic will happen to your community if you let it. You will hunt down the truth. You are strong in your own way, clever and quick and not without a bit of magical skill. You will detangle Lucio’s tricks. You will send him right back into the hole he crawled out of. He is the one who should be afraid of you.

The bed is levitating.

Muriel is staring at you with wide, startled green eyes. Even Inanna has shrunk away, ears pinned nervously back as the bed rocks gently on an invisible current of magic. You blink. "Oh!"

The bed lands back on the floor with a rattling thump. You wince. Inanna springs off of it. After a long moment you’re able to calm your own turbulent magical aura and flop back onto the pillow. Trace patterns on the ceiling with your eyes. You can hear rain starting up outside. After a very, very long pause Muriel clears his throat.

“..... did you just call me sweet heart?”


	5. Asra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the apprentice reconnects with Asra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a tonal shift because I am introducing Asra. You lot read the tags, you know that this fic is one of those rare ones that is an actual polyamorous triad -- romantic and emotional connection between three people. In this case, Muriel/you/Asra. Give it a chance, readers, I think you'll like where I'm taking this! And if it ain't your cuppa? Warmly I beseech thee, write thine own erotic fanfiction! Cheers.

It’s a quiet day at the shop. You putter about, dusting off shelves, rearranging bottles, and cleaning obsessively. Asra watches you with an amused slant to his eye.

He suggests, “Come relax?"

_Relax!_ chirps Faust.

“Not right now, you two. The chores won’t do themselves... hey, Faust. I can see what you're doing! Stop hunting the stove salamander. We need him. Unlike _some_ people around here, he is gainfully employed.”

Asra unspools smilingly from where he was draped over a chair. He glides into your personal space, leaning over the counter to reorganize some vials. Oh, blast. You had mixed up the order of the hyssop and the nightshade again. Asra is always effortlessly better at magical things than you. You sniff. Pick up the broom again. At least you’re good at this part.

Spidery fingers close around your hand. Asra smells wonderful, fragrant with lapsang souchong. “You work too hard. Or maybe I work too little… probably that second one. I miss you lately.”

Asra is way too pretty to be real. Slender wisp of a person, with a thick lace of black lashes fanning out from violet eyes. Seriously, who even has violet eyes? Your favorite thing about him is his perpetually mischievous expression. It’s like he is up to something, like he knows a secret.

From the moment you woke three years ago, coughing out phantom water from your lungs, scraping phantom ash from your arms, kicking phantom soil away from your legs, he has been with you. Warm brown arms have held you. Springy white curls have whispered over your cheek at night. You have felt the way he will not overstep his bounds. Feel the restraint he exercises when he is near you.

It makes you wonder what he was to you. In the past. The before times.

When you kissed him in the Magician’s realm, you knew the difference. You knew because the real Asra had trembled with longing, frozen in place by the touch of your lips, and his aura had erupted with pure, unadulterated adoration. The intensity had startled you. You had drawn back, breathing fast -- spooked and absolutely certain that you had once made love to him.

“Beautiful boy. I miss you too.”

Asra is nonchalant about his own beauty in the manner of those who have always been conventionally attractive. The only time he values compliments is when they come from you. He smiles graciously and says, “Faust tells me that Muriel has really taken a shine to you. I’m glad.”

Of course he knows. It makes it easier than having to explain, somehow, the complicated way that Muriel makes you feel. Still you can’t help but feel a bit apprehensive. Your attraction to Muriel is new, untested. Asra has proven his commitment to you again and again. He may leave often, but he will never truly abandon you.

In a small voice, you ask, “Are you truly glad, Asra? I… my curiosity about Muriel doesn’t mean that our connection is any less--”

“I know,” Asra is smiling, eyes crinkling with genuine good humor. “Honestly, you couldn’t have picked a better person to catch your eye. Gruff as he can come across, Muriel has the most integrity of any person I know. You can trust him. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“It sounds weird now that I admit it out loud. I just -- I really want to keep current on what is important to you. What's happening in your life, how you are. I want to know that you are well, and I want to know when you are not so that I can help you be well, and I feel similarly for Muriel. I worry we will grow apart.”

“Then stop leaving us behind on those mysterious adventures all the time,” you say. It comes out more crisply than you intended and you immediately regret it. “Oh. I’m -- I’m sorry. That was mean of me.”

He steps forward and tucks his head into your shoulder, pressing until you loop your arms around him. He is a couple inches taller than you.

“No. You’re right. I would lose patience with me too. I think of you constantly when I am gone.”

“Well. What are you actually doing when you leave the city?”

“I am exploring the realms of the Arcana. Deepening my understanding of magic, such that it is. I’m looking for answers. And mostly digging up more questions.”

“What questions, Asra?”

“Who really killed Lucio? Why can’t the Arcana enter our world? Why are the lines between this world and theirs beginning to muddy, why are some of them losing their power. Why do some non-magicians develop such a powerful connection to a patron Arcana? Wh--”

“I get it. Emperor alive.”

“I need answers,” and your name on his lips is apologetic. “There is so much I don't understand. I just wish that you weren’t turning into a mystery to me as well.”

Your heart gives a pang. You tell him, “Oh. Look. That won’t happen. My life is much the same, although I keep my search for answers to this plane of existence. And as for Muriel… I don’t know. I don’t actually know much about him. It’s just that when I’m with him, I feel comfortable. Safe.”

“I know what you mean. Even before the forget-me spell, he never wanted to be in the spotlight. It's in his nature to protect people he cares about, though, and that means he has to leave his forest more often than he wants to."

You ponder for a moment. Eventually, you remark, "There's something about his aura."

“Exactly!” says Asra.

You both understand what the other means. Muriel has one of the steadiest, most calming energetic auras that you have ever felt. You know that Asra can feel it too. Muriel’s aura feels like warmth, like honey licked straight from the comb, like the sweat-warm hide of a horse that has just been taken for a gallop, like soil after a thunderstorm. You both sigh dreamily. Then giggle at the same time.

“Oh, god. We’re a mess,” you say blushing, poking your finger into Asra’s cheek dimple. “I didn’t know you feel that way about him!”

The magician grins. “He’s not the only one I feel that way about.”

Your smile falters; your heart skips a beat. Your hand is frozen and, making gentle eye contact, Asra tilts his head to press his lips into the center of your palm. This person is so ethereal you cannot breathe. He speaks as if he isn’t nuzzling his mouth into your hand.

* * *

**_[Give him a kiss.]_ **

_Change the subject._

* * *

Muriel isn’t the only one that fascinates you, either. You are lost in the oasis of Asra’s eyes. Drop your gaze to his lips, flick them back up to see if he is into this. His expression is open, anticipatory. You lean in and kiss him, taste the plush softness of his lips under yours. He melts into it. His hair tickles your cheeks. Distantly, a part of you from long ago seems to recall that he appreciates when you assert yourself, so you slide your hand through silky white hair and draw him in firmly, hook your arm around his slim waist and squeeze.

He ragdolls in your arms, sighing blissfully at your warm attention.

_Kiss!_

Faust wants to be part of the cuddle puddle. You feel her climbing up your leg, clumsy on account of having no arms or legs. You scoop up the plump purple python and Asra breaks the kiss with a snort-laugh. He leans in to squeeze Faust between your chests. She bleps.

Hoarse-voiced, you tell him, “I won’t go anywhere, Asra. I may not remember my past, but I won’t forget you ever again. I can’t speak for Muriel, but I have a hunch that he isn’t the sort of person who abandons his friends. Don’t worry so much.”

His eyes are smiling, two high spots of pink on his cheeks. “I won’t worry then. Now it’s my turn to ask a favor of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Be gentle with him. People are hard for Muriel. He doesn’t know how to play social games. He has such a big heart, and he doesn't have any way to protect it.”

“I would never hurt him,” you say, aghast at the thought. 

Asra replies, as casually as a greeting, nonchalant like he isn’t saying something very important, like he isn’t making a declaration of devotion: “I do love you, you know. I love you very much. Both of you, actually...  and I know I’m not always good at showing how much you mean to me. Forgive me.”

You nod weakly. It’s one thing to sense something, and another entirely to hear it said out loud in the daylight. You wish you could be as radically honest as he is. If you had the context of your past, you might feel more confident saying how you feel out loud. But it is too scary. Too much.

_Love you!_ Faust shouts helpfully.


	6. Gladiator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you come to understand Muriel's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, THE ARCANA UPDATED TODAY WITH CHAPTER 20 AND THE BEGINNING OF THE END AND AAAAAAAAAH I CAN'T STOP SCREAMING WITH EXCITEMENT.
> 
> 2\. It is Thursday, lo, we update this fic. Back to our regularly scheduled flirting with the LORG BOI as Sika calls him
> 
> 3\. Happy Valentine's day to you, Muriel, and Asra in your little polycule.
> 
> 4\. I should add this to the tags but in this fic, you give Muriel a pet name. Because you like him. And he loves it. Don't like it? I cordially invite thee to write thine own erotique fanfictione. Because in this house, we use pet names. Sparingly and only when appropriate. But we do use them. Mwahahahaha.

Your presence seems to fluster Muriel.

He is so affected by positive attention. Every time you grin at him, joke with him, or acknowledge him in any way, Muriel quietly glows. It’s really cute.

There is one thing that seems to draw him out of his shell, and that is food. Like clockwork, Muriel serendipitously visits the shop on community cooking days. You smirk. Feed a stray cat and it’ll never leave. Apparently this is true of bears as well.

After breakfasting with the dock orphans, you tighten your sabretache and inform Muriel that you have an errand to run. He mumbles that he’ll come with you, if you want.

“It’s at the coliseum,” you tell him as you weave down the labyrinthian alleys. “You won’t believe it, but there is an underground marketplace hidden below! Some of the rarest tinctures can only be found there.”

The footsteps behind you stop abruptly.

“Muriel?”

For a split second you catch a glimpse of him as if he was a different person entirely -- one capable of inflicting great violence. His expression is dark, shoulders huge and rigid. His whole body vibrates with volatile power and his shoulders fill the too-small alley. You shrink instinctively.

“M-Muriel?” you whisper hesitantly. “Are… are you okay?”

His eyes refocus on you. He blinks. Then he blurts out your name, a loud bark of sound, and reaches for you suddenly, and you are caught off guard and before you can school your emotions you flinch away. You immediately regret that. His expression is just crushed, influenced by a lifetime of public rejection. He begins to curl in on himself, posture deflating to become as small as he can.

* * *

_Let him go._

_ **[Do something. Anything.]** _

* * *

 

No. You absolutely cannot let that happen. You act before you think; you fling yourself against him and press in until there is no air between your bodies, throwing your arms about his thickly muscled waist as far as you can reach.

“Don’t go,” you gasp, hiding your face in his chest. Oh, Fool alive, way to show your hand. Embarrassment follows the impulsive hug in a flood. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Don’t -- Muriel, whatever you’re thinking, just… don’t. I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t care what just happened, I know who you really are and I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to do. His weight shifts and you cling harder. He will have to peel you off if he really wants you to let go. Instead, his hands rest hesitantly on your shoulders. He lets you cling. After it becomes clear you have no intention of de-clinging, he cups your back and leans protectively over you. It is kind of a hug. You’ll take it.

“... Stop that,” Muriel mumbles self-consciously. “You’re making a scene…”

“I don’t care. Are you okay?”

“Hrn. The coliseum has bad memories. Everyone is scared of me." _I don’t want you to be scared of me, too_ hangs unspoken in the air.

You say firmly, “I am not scared of you. You shouldn’t come with me. I can handle the underground market on my own, I’ll--”

“No,” Muriel growls. “That place is rife with pickpockets and worse. Don’t go there alone. It isn’t safe. I’ll come.”

It is the first time he has ever used such a stern tone of voice. You tilt your head back and attempt to stare him down. With a nearly two foot height difference, Muriel wins. The corners of his mouth twitch. You shrug out of his arms and dust yourself off to regain your dignity.

“Well. You must tell me if it is too much. We’ll make it quick.”

You enter the coliseum.

His steps are steady behind as you trot to the trap door. The ladder creaks under his weight when he follows you down. The marketplace reeks of oolong, air cloying with incense, sweat, and conversation. For a secret market, the cloistered halls are packed to the gills with people. You recognize some, but here there is a pact of discretion. What happens in the underground market stays in the underground market.

Right. Focus.

“This way, I think,” you chirp reassuringly, grinning at Muriel over your shoulder. You lead the way.

Your small stature lets you duck and slither through the churn of bodies unimpeded. Somewhere along the way, the little myrrh talisman in your blouse is jostled free and lost under a sea of feet. Booths line every walkway; people lay out on Prakran carpets, exhaling plumes of purple smoke from delicate glass instruments. A cheetah snarls on a golden leash. Exotic birds squawk in spindly cages. You stop to purchase a vial of saffron for the shop, sumac and juniper berries. Everything here is kinetic and fast-paced. It’s so easy to get lost.

A beautiful person of indeterminate gender blows a wind instrument and a hooded cobra sways sleepily to the melody. It reminds you of Faust. You smile fondly and move on, past a troupe performing traditional Vesuvian dance. Your senses are overwhelmed with fragrance, movement, and distraction. It is impossible to focus on just one thing, although you are distantly aware that you are here for a reason.

Why are you here again?

Something feels off.

You buy an opalescent vest for Asra.

“Oi!” a vendor shrills from a few booths down. “Oi, you look familiar -- Emperor alive, could it be? The Scourge of the South?!”

Curious, you join a little group of people. They are gasping at the tallest person you have ever seen in your life. He’s looming heads above the rest of the crowd, looking pale. He seems to be searching for something. The murmurs increase.

“Is that really him?”

“Couldn’t be. They say he left Vesuvia, never to return.”

“There’s no way that guy’s the Scourge of the South. I heard he’s ten feet tall. This guy is only, what. Seven feet?”

“Doesn’t matter how tall he was. I heard that Count Lucio had the Scourge killed off.”

“Yeah. This guy definitely isn’t him… he’s kind of forgettable.”

You duck under a few arms to get close. Big guy is anxious. He’s looking through the crowd with desperation, and there is a pang of some undefinable emotion in your chest. You feel like you should know him, but you are one hundred percent certain that you have never met him before. Either way, it is clear that he needs help getting out of the market before what is left of his composure cracks.

You pop out of the crowd, tug the corner of his cloak. “Excuse me. Do you need help..?”

The strange man looks down at you with sad eyes. There is a flash of recognition in them and he sags with visible relief. Your name falls from his lips with confident familiarity. You blink. The little group of people has lost interest and is dispersing. All except for the original vendor. He is hounding.

“Why won’t you all pay attention?! THIS IS HIM. This is the legendary Scourge, I’m telling you..! You idiot sheeple, open your eyes and LOOK!”

Using magic, you summon a plume of smoke from a nearby booth and shoot it right into the vendor’s nose. He doubles over, sneezing his brains out. You ball your hand in the huge man’s cloak and pull.

“Come on, cutie.”

As briskly as possible, you guide big guy out of the winding halls, up the ladder, and across the hot coliseum to rest behind a marble pillar.

“Made it, stranger. You all right?” but when you look up at him, something in your heart crumbles.

He is looking down at you with wet eyes, lip wobbly. His shoulders are shaking. He is so vulnerable, on the verge of tears. He swallows audibly and rasps desperately, “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Horrified by this poor stranger’s pain, you clutch his hand in yours to comfort him. As soon as your skin touches, a memory explodes in your mind -- a memory that does not belong to you.

* * *

> _The audience roared in the coliseum. The rusted pit bars shrieked open and the sun on hot sand blinded Muriel. He hesitated. The facilitator snapped crisply, “Best get on with it. Otherwise it’ll mean trouble for both of us later.”_
> 
> _Trouble for Asra, they meant. Muriel went slowly into the ring. There was a collective hush as the audience sized him up, then heavy applause. He stared dully at the first man in a line of ten that Lucio had selected from the Vesuvian prison._
> 
> _The convict was big, but Muriel was bigger. Lucio’s voice rang out across the arena, informing his opponent that if he should succeed in defeating the Scourge of the south, he would be granted pardon for his crimes._
> 
> _Muriel wished he could disappear._
> 
> _But then the start was announced, and the convict began slinking toward him, long spear at the ready. Clearly he hoped to stay out of range. Muriel watched him quietly. He wondered if this man had a family, children, a life. He wondered if Count Lucio had a scrap of empathy in him._
> 
> _The prisoner lunged forward suddenly, spear shining, and Muriel violently backhanded it off course. The crowd gasped. To his credit, the convict rallied and tried again. Muriel caught the spear inches from his throat. Tightened his hand. Wood creaked. The convict yanked on the spear fruitlessly. Muriel grit his teeth and kept squeezing, imagining that the spear was Lucio’s neck._
> 
> _The spear cracked with a snap. Lucio laughed in delight. The crowd was fanatical. The prisoners face was ashen. He released the spear and drew his gladius. He came at Muriel._
> 
> _Muriel wasn’t particularly elegant with a sword. He didn’t have to be. His parries were graceless and thunderous. Steel clanged and the convict hissed as the reverberations ran up his sweating arms._
> 
> _Muriel felt numb. He did not want to kill this man. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wished he was back in the forest, petting the friendly wolf pup he had found. Distantly he was aware that his eyes were burning with unshed tears. He was glad to hide behind the dark curtain of his hair._
> 
> _Distraction gave his opponent the opening he needed. The sword slid through Muriel’s skin like a hot knife through butter, but he hardly felt it. It was nothing compared to the pain in his heart for what Lucio would make him do. The blood roared in his ears. Lucio’s voice was quiet, but cut through the screams of the crowd like he was whispering straight in Muriel’s ear._
> 
> _“This man murdered his wife and child in cold blood.”_
> 
> _Muriel’s nostrils flared, a darkness coming over his eyes. He stepped forward, the crowd going absolutely insane when the movement further impaled himself, and raised up his gladius to the scorching sun._
> 
> _The convict stared in shock, still gripping the end of his sword where it vanished into Muriel’s thick side. He murmured a prayer beneath his breath. Muriel exhaled and brought down his arm. The crowd howled. Lucio laughed._

* * *

 You emerge from the memory with a gasp.

He was a gladiator.

Lucio blackmailed him.

This man is -- “Muriel!”

You can’t stop gasping for some reason, filled to the brim with guilt. Here is your friend. Here is Muriel, and you abandoned him when he needed you the most. All the apologies in the world will never be enough. Is the trust broken forever? Will Muriel go back to being the skittish, suspicious hermit that he was when you met? You hope with all your heart that you have not ruined it all.

Muriel is shrinking in on himself. “........ do you… remember me?”

You choke back a sob. This moment will not -- cannot -- be about your feelings. He needs you. “Oh, sweet heart. Muriel. I could never forget you. I want to get you out of here, get you somewhere quiet. Is that okay?”

He nods. Lets you guide him through the streets of Vesuvia and into the safety of the shop.

The door locks with a click. You flick your fingers to light the lamp, toss pillows on the floor to make room on the bed you share with Asra in the back room. The salamander knows something is wrong and starts a fire under the copper kettle. Muriel sits where you gesture on the bed. You drop your bag onto the floor and inhale.

“First of all: I am sorrier than I have ever been sorry for anything in my life. I was such an inconsiderate ass for leaving you! The marketplace is loud, but that is no excuse for running off--”

“The myrrh.”

“--into the mess without making sure you were behind me. And right after you were reminded of all those terrible memories, and I saw the memories in your mind, and I kind of feel like throwing up because now I know how it feels to be forced to, to do something like that, and I should never have--”

“The myrrh,” Muriel says again.

“--left… what? What did you just say?”

“The myrrh. You lost it. That’s why you forgot.”

You blink. Look down into your empty blouse. “Oh.”

In the warm light of the shop, Muriel’s face has regained its color. He sits back a bit more and pushes his hand through his hair. The kettle begins to squeak. You don’t want to leave him for even a second.

He huffs. “Go. Make tea. Or whatever.”

You linger undecidedly. It’s only a room away, but it feels much farther. Muriel snorts, looking away and blushing. “...I’m not going anywhere.”

You make tea like lightning and scuttle back into the room. He’s still there. The corners of his mouth twitch at your speed, and his eyes are soft. You drop the tea tray on the bedside table with a clang and climb onto the bed beside him, leaning on him.

“Let’s be emotional wrecks together,” you tell him.

He shifts. You growl threateningly (although it comes out more like a distressed mumble) but he isn’t getting up to leave, he is just rearranging so that he can slide an arm around your shoulders and you grab his hand and squeeze it against your chest so you can hug him back somehow. His chuckle is so deep it comes out more like a rumble than a laugh. After a pause, Muriel pulls you slowly into his lap, slow enough that you can wriggle free any minute. You ragdoll and let him tuck you into his body, snug you firmly against himself.

It is pure bliss to be cocooned in his arms. You’ve never felt so safe. You reach up and wind your arms around his neck, collar be damned. Press your cheek against his chest. He’s still rumbling in amusement, only the slight shake of his hands giving away his nerves at having you so close. You take a risk and comb your fingertips through thick black hair.

He drops his nose into your hair and inhales your scent bashfully. Each time he takes a breath his shoulders relax more.

“I will never leave you alone like that ever again,” you tell him. He snorts. “Muriel, I’m serious.”

“.... It wasn’t your fault. Without myrrh, the spell is stronger.”

“Oh, honey bear,” you sigh, and you feel it when Muriel flushes hotly from his chest all the way up to his ears. He doesn’t reply, but this close his aura reveals that he is secretly thrilled to be given an affectionate pet name.

“Let’s get some fresh myrrh right away.”


	7. Woodsmoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GET IT 'PPRENTICE, SIC 'IM! <3

You think about Muriel’s trauma in the marketplace for a few days.

It was catastrophically inconsiderate to drag him with you there. Guilt eats at you. You had never seen such an expression on his face before, and you hope to never see it again. When the afternoon sun starts its descent, you lock up the shop and you hike into the dark forest.

Light gleams through the leafy canopy; birds twitter, and a rabbit explodes out of the underbrush and away. 

You hear the rhythmic  _ thok _ of chopping wood before you see Muriel in the yard. And when you do see him, your mouth goes dry. He is facing away from you, each stroke bringing the axe high over his head. The sculpture of his back bunches and flexes, the lazy ripples of his muscle sliding beneath skin like a big cat. You want to lick up the trickle of sweat glistening down his spine.

Muriel finishes with the firewood and looks over his shoulder. Your name on his lips is quietly warm.

“Hey,” you reply hesitantly.

His mouth tightens at your tone. “...What’s wrong?”

“I -- well. About the other day. I wanted to check on you.”

The little not-quite-smile makes an appearance, Muriel's eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “That? I’m fine.”

Despite the whole titan thing, he can be _so_ boyishly cute. You trot closer, and he gazes down, posture unguarded. You smile and tell him, “You know, I remember when you used to hide from me. You were so shy! Now I get to see more of you.”

Muriel actually chuckles. “You’re the mysterious one, not me.”

This close, you can’t help but feel his aura brushing yours. To some extent, magicians can sense the magic energy of others. The forget-me spell makes it challenging to decipher Muriel’s, but you catch a glimpse, and you sense that he’s nervous. Nervous and… slightly aroused.

“I wish I’d come to see you earlier,” you admit. “I was looking for answers, and then Asra came home.”

His expression goes inscrutable. “Hn. You didn’t have to come.”

“What’s with that face?”

“What?”

“You made a face when I mentioned Asra. Are you two quarreling right now?”

He puts distance between you and pretends to examine one of the logs he chopped. Will not meet your eyes. When it becomes evident that you are not going to let this one go, he eventually caves in and mutters, “Things between Asra and I are fine. It’s just… you two are always together. When you’re with each other, you see no one else."

He inhales slowly, and on the exhale Muriel says softly, "When you and Asra are together, I don’t need a spell to be forgotten.”

His words sting your heart. It stings because there is a grain of truth to that -- or at least, there was at one point. You know this is a hinge moment of truth, and it is in the space of an instant that you firmly decide to approach the topic with transparency. Anything other than baldfaced honesty would be more devastating than the truth.

“Muriel. It’s true that Asra and I are close. And it is true that I do love him.”

Muriel inhales sharply, going rigid. Envious pain ripples through his aura. “I see.”

“But Asra loves  _ you _ . Do you think an individual has only enough love in their heart for one other person?  You, Muriel! He's loved you far longer than he has ever returned my affection, because you are his oldest and best friend.  He speaks of you so often now that I can remember you like he does, and I hear the love in his voice. If you could only hear how he talks about you. How I talk about you."

Muriel's entire body has suddenly gone very, very still. He isn't making eye contact, but you can tell that he is listening with every cell in his body.

"As for me…” you swallow hard. Your heart is a trapped, fluttering bird. "I, uh. Erm."

Why are his eyes so green? Why does he look so vulnerable?

It is now or never.

* * *

_ Change the topic. _

**_[Kiss him.]_ **

* * *

 

You step in close, daring to press your body lightly against his, ghosting your small hands up his arms. You wind a hand into the broken chain dangling heavily off his collar and pull slowly. Muriel slowly bows down to your level (thank the High Priestess. It would have been humiliating if he hadn’t). His eyes flicker anywhere but your face.

You push back the dark curtain of his hair to thumb his cheek. Despite the thunder of your own heartbeat, you lean up and ghost your lips against the corner of his mouth. It isn’t quite a proper kiss, but you do it that way on purpose. You want him to have a say in this, you want him to want this too. You lip softly at the corner of his mouth and breathe in the scent of him, enjoy the tiny prickles of his stubble.

He makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat.

Then, skittish as a colt, he slowly tips his face and touches his lips to yours. Intuitively, you understand that this action is somehow one of the bravest things Muriel has ever done. His lips are hot and chapped and perfect. You melt into sensory experience, holding the end of his chain firmly in one hand and his cheek in the other.

He is trembling.

You wonder if you should, but hell, you go ahead and subtly sweep the tip of your tongue over his bottom lip. He inhales sharply and his hesitation dissolves, hands coming around to hold you. You purr into his mouth, gently sucking his lower lip, the most tender touch of teeth. He is rumbling with pleasure, with eagerness, with arousal. You kiss and kiss, and the more you kiss the more it feels like slotting a missing puzzle piece into the right place.

When at last you draw back for breath, Muriel's eyes are half-lidded and he gazes down at you with an expression you have never seen before. It's breathtaking.

 


	8. Quench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's business  
> It's business time  
> I know what you're trying to say  
> You're trying to say it's time for business,  
> It's business time, oh  
> It's business  
> It's business time  
> Aww ohowoah yeah, yeah"  
> -Flight of the Conchords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with the unexplained blip in updates! I'm an artist and I am selling my work at a huge convention that has needed enormous prep and I literally haven't had a single ounce of capacity to do anything like open up my fanfiction documents, rub my bleary eyes, and do my usual careful final edits before posting. I just don't have the spoons right now and that is to be expected! I won't be chillin' writing my Arcana porn fanfic again until early next month-- BUT GUESS WHAT? HERE COMES THE FIRST SMUTTY CHAPTER TO TIDE YOU OVER! xoxo enjoy

The first time you and Muriel have sex surprises you both.

It’s a drizzling, chilly spring morning. As you traipse up the hill into the forest, your slippers can’t find purchase; with a squeak of shock you tumble top over tail right back down the wet hill. You lay plopped in the mud staring up into the grey sky.

And you giggle.

Sometimes you wish your laugh was a little more elegant, less aborted tiny gasps. More resonant -- like Nadia. Her laugh is mature and sensual. But it is what it is, as Mazelinka always recites. The grass crunches and a shadow falls over your face a moment before a muzzle snuffles over your face. Inanna has dog breath.

“Phew! Off. I’m okay,” except then, unfortunately, your laughter makes a sharp snort which sends you over the edge again. Muriel’s face appears, hair dripping with rain. They must have been walking nearby.

“What are you doing?” he rasps.

“Falling down a hill, apparently. Bwaha. Help me up--” big arms scoop you to your feet. You brace yourself on Muriel’s rocky abdomen, snickering. “Fool alive. I can’t believe I did that.”

Muriel looks down at you, and his eyes are crinkled with amusement. The corners of his lips twitch. “...I didn’t think magicians could fall like that. Aren’t your type supposed to be graceful?”

“Asra has cornered the market on grace,” you tell him, flapping your arm. You are soaked in mud. “I was trying to come see you. I want to bake these apples.”

“Apples. Uh, I don’t have a proper stove.”

“We’ll make do. Come on,” you say, turning to try the hill.

Except the same patch of slick earth does you in. Or at least it tried to but for Muriel’s reflexes. He catches you by the scruff of your shirt, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he tucks you up under his colossal arm to carry you. His side is warm. He smells like thick male musk, like natural smoke and pine and wood chips. The scent makes warmth uncurl deep in your belly. His arm is solid around your waist. For once, Muriel isn’t hunching over trying to make himself small. He is in his element. So you dangle there like a sack of potatoes. A giggling sack of potatoes.

A giggling, _turned on_ sack of potatoes.

The rain on Muriel’s roof is a pleasant sound.

Your clothes are soaked through, and you stand dripping from more than one place in the doorway. Muriel shakes his head like a dog, sending water everywhere. He shrugs off his cloak, drapes the fur kilt he wears over the stool to dry. His wet torso gleams. His trousers are soaked tight to his hips, stretching wetly to accomodate a thick swell of flesh between his thighs. He dresses to the left. Emperor alive. The loincloth they were selling in the underground marketplace was definitely a fake. There was no way it could have covered _that_.

When he turns, you take in his silhouette. The man is built like a brick shit house. Still, there is a surprisingly fineness to his silhouette. Broad shoulders taper suddenly at the waist, at least in comparison to the rest of him, and the globes of his arse are tight and high. You want to grab it and squeeze. You want to nose between the rugged planes of his scapula and rub like a scent-marking cat. You want to lick the seam of his thigh where it meets groin.

Your fingers flex at your sides, and you know your lips are parted in a silent pant like some hormonal teen but you can’t stop it.

Your clit is pulsing and you are _wet_.

You are going to fuck this man.

Oblivious, Muriel has gone to light the hearth and pack apples on the coals. You dazedly kick off your soggy slippers and shuck your colorful vest. Your shalwar are so waterlogged it is hard to walk. His back is to you. You look longingly at the warmth of his arms. He would probably warm you up faster than the fire...

* * *

_**[Come onto him.]** _

_Abort mission, abort!_

* * *

 Your heart is going so fast you nearly feel faint. You can’t believe your own boldness, but something about Muriel... something tells you that in romance, he isn’t the type to understand anything but the clearest overture. The playful subterfuge of flirtation is not his forte. So before you lose your courage, you peel your wet shirt off of your body. The air feels cold on your bare breasts and belly. It takes forever to shimmy the clinging shalwar off your hips.

Muriel’s rustling goes very, very quiet.

You step out of the puddle of trousers. Your undergarments are a black silky sash wound snugly around your hips. Your small breasts are bare, nipples threaded with two tiny silver hoops -- a popular fashion trend in Prakra. You don’t remember your past, but the jewelry has always been there, and is long healed. You glance up, face hot.

Muriel looks thunderstruck, frozen on one knee and half twisted around as though he had been about to speak and had suddenly forgotten how. His eyes are wide, trying to stay on your face and continually falling to drink in your body. His throat bobs. You get the impression he rarely sees breasts. Or naked bodies.

You can feel Muriel’s aura pulsing with excitement, surprise, sudden arousal.

“Is this okay? I was planning to cover up with something dry,” you untruthfully inform him.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurts suddenly.

You smile self-consciously, expecting him to take it back, or change the subject, or avert his eyes. It can be hard to take a compliment sometimes. But Muriel does not retract his words or make excuses. His face is red as a beet, but he stands by his assessment.

You cross the space between, take his flushing face between your hands, and hungrily cover his mouth with yours. He surges into the kiss with an immediate hunger. As you take the lead, he follows right away with a sense of relief. He probably doesn’t know how to initiate this kind of intimacy himself. He whispers your name, voice ragged. His behavior is so different than when you first met him, wounded and skittish as a wild animal that flinched away from your every motion.

You press his chest and he sits back down heavily. You climb up into his lap, panting. “I want you… Is this all right? Do you want me, too? I’ll stop any second you ask, I just… can’t get you off my mind. Tell me if you don’t want this and I’ll stop right now.”

Muriel swallows again, great chest heaving beneath your palms. Shaking hands find your waist. His fingertips nearly meet around it.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

“How far am I allowed to go?” your hands touch everywhere you can reach, feeling the bristle of hair on his chest, the striped slashes of endless scars, the firmness of muscle under his skin. You want to take a _bite_ out of him.

“Any way you want. All the way. If you want.”

You reach down to feel the bulge straining against his wet trousers. The rumble in his chest catches. You squeeze, feel the heat beneath your palm. Oh. Big. Muriel lifts you enough to yank off his trousers and holy fucking Hierophant, his cock is proportional to the rest of him. The thick pole of his erection strains against his belly, pearls of precum already beading on the head. Your pussy gives a hungry little internal pulse. He regards you cautiously. You smile and reach down, hold the weight of him in your hand.

“You’re sexy,” you tell him. “This is impressive, but I like your cute face even better!”

Then you learn in and chase his blushing cheek as he snorts and looks away, a barely-there smile quirking the corners of his lips. You laugh warmly and dip your fingertip into the pearl of precum that is beaded on the head, swirl it in gentle circles. There is a burning low in your belly, the deep ache of arousal.

“Fuck,” says Muriel.

Those hands grip your hips, thumbs massaging into your skin… slide hesitantly up your torso to your breasts. It only takes one hand to cover both of them. You both moan. You press your cunt onto one powerful thigh, rock your hips. Feels good.

He is mouthing at a nipple, taking it in his mouth and sucking softly. He looks a bit like he hasn’t caught up, like he’s afraid the dream will burst and none of this is happening for real. You dismount long enough to toss off your soaked undergarments.

You want to climb him again but he stops you, eyes half-lidded with lust. Wordlessly, he guides you to turn around for him, to face the warmth of the fireplace. For a man who can deadlift a carriage, Muriel’s touch is gentle. He eases you down to his lap, and for a split second you are terrified he is going to impale you on his massive cock, split you open wider than you have ever been opened before. But he doesn’t. You sit between his legs, back flush up against his chest, his cock on your back.

He holds you. Huffs the smell of your hair like it’s his last night on earth, like you are the myrrh that centers him. You cup his cheek and crane your neck to kiss him. This kiss is tender. Intimate. You sink into the sweetness of his mouth and are not expecting it when his hand strokes a path from your knee to your groin. Stops at the crease where leg meets hips.

Fuck.

You make kitten sounds of desperation; your hips strain toward his touch. You feel Muriel smile. He cups you. You groan, spreading your legs for him. He slowly massages his hand into your pussy, rubbing the swollen, puffy skin.

“... you’re so soft,” he remarks. “I can’t believe how soft you are here…”

“Imagine what it feels like from the inside,” you twitch. “Imagine me squeezing around your cock, bouncing on it—“

Muriel makes a choked sound, his cock throbbing against your back. For just a moment you think he might have cum, but then he shudders and brings his hands to his mouth, wets his fingers, coaxes your body aflame with curious touch. Your pussy is swollen and slick. Your clit is so hard beneath its little hood that it actually feels physically painful, until he gently squeezes it. You whine, toss your head back on his shoulder, sob with the intensity of it.

“...You really like this.”

“Yes!”

He sucks a mark into the side of your neck. The sturdy wall of his back supports you as you sit in his arms and let him finger you any way he wants right there on the floor, right there on the piles of musky pelts. He dips two fingers inside of you, adjusts his angle slightly, sinks them in to the first knuckle. He draws them out with a slick noise, then pushes back in. The small wet sounds of his fingers tenderly fucking in and out of you fill the cottage.

“Oh, High Priestess alive. Muriel. Oh, please--”

His voice rumbles unexpectedly in your ear. “...you’re so beautiful. I’m lucky to be here right now.”

He reaches around with his other hand, hunching over you and cupping your mound so he can knead and flick your clit while his other fingers keep rubbing the clenching walls inside. You are drunk on pleasure. Your pussy feels hot. A fire is kindling in your lower belly. Distantly you are aware that your toes are curling into the furs so hard that they are cramping up. You can feel him rumbling behind you, your thighs taut and fingers digging white-knuckled into the knotted muscle of Muriel’s forearms. Your sex-addled brain runs away with your mouth and you cry out that it feels so good, please don’t stop, please keep touching like that, and that you’re going to cum, he is going to make you cum, you’re going to cum all over his lovely perfect clever hand.

Your orgasm snaps suddenly through you, lightning rippling through your body from your clit, quivering, sobbing. You squirt hotly over his fingers, over your legs tangled together, onto the pelts, onto the floor. This is what heaven feels like. You can’t remember a time in your life that you have ever felt so good and it just keeps going, pleasure rolling through you again and again until it starts to hurt. Muriel’s appreciative groan is loud against your back, cock jerking against your back in response.

“Fuck. I want to see,” he whispers.

Your hips are still rolling, orgasm still gushing wetly through his fingers, when he pulls away (you scream with the loss of stimulation and warmth) and lets you squirt into the open air, the most vulnerable part of you totally exposed, open to the firelight.

You have no shame. Pleasure has burnt it away entirely. You pump your hips once or twice into the air as the gushing subsides. Go limp like a marionette with cut strings. Moan in purest relief, hair streaked to your face with sweat. He kisses you. He’s breathing heavily and trembling.

“Oh, sweet heart…” you climb sluggishly out of his lap, slide bonelessly forward onto the soggy pelts, and pop your rear into the air. Doggy style.

“Your turn. Fuck me.”

He groans, palming his erection. “I shouldn’t. It won’t fit.”

“It will,” you growl. “It will. Please, my big sweet honey bear, come here.”

It’s the pet name that does him in. His uncertainty seems to be exclusively in relation to hurting you, and although he is panting for it, he takes everything excruciatingly slow. He carefully mounts you from behind, a big palm flattening on your lower back to steady your wiggling hips. His cock bumps your clit and you groan. The big head of his cock slips against you, searching. Nudges in a bit, just the tip.

“I’ll go slow,” whispers Muriel. “I’ll just start with a little bit, okay?”

The head pushes the silky seam of your pussy open. You hum. The strong orgasm relaxed you. His cock slips in a little bit farther, slides into the slickness. He holds himself inside of you, just the tip, until you growl for him to get back to it. He rocks his hips, fucking you shallowly. You both gasp. Every push takes him a bit deeper, and very time he pulls out the line of slick on his shaft glistens farther and farther down the length.

It might actually be too much.

You’re not sure.

You drop your head between your elbows and pant, biting your lip.

His palms rub your back soothingly.

You’ve never taken a cock this big.

“I’m hurting you. I’m pulling out.” Muriel says matter-of-factly.

“No,” you choke. “No! Fuck, I just took you so far. Don’t stop now! Don’t leave me like this..!”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he gasps, making a strangled sound when you push your hips toward him, impaling yourself deeper, splitting open your silky petals until they are stretched to their limit in a tight pink ring.

It stings, but it’s worth it because of the noise he makes.

He is huge. Far larger than any toy or cock you’d enjoyed before, and the sensation brings you in tune with your body. You swear you can feel him in your throat. It hurts. It hurts _good_. The best kind of burn, stretching you open, satisfyingly spreading apart your inner muscles like they are nothing. Warm, strong arms hold you tightly while that fat cock sinks deep inside until the leathery fullness of his balls mash against your clit.

It’s glorious.

His body is huge and warm on top of you. He is propped on his elbows, nuzzling the back of your neck while you grip his forearms. He rasps your name, falls over you until his massive body shelters you completely, fucking you like you have never been fucked before and never will be again. You keen and scream and yelp. The staccato smack of flesh on flesh fills the hut.

“Oh, Empress, uhnn. I can feel you inside of me -- so big -- ah! Fuck, yes, give it to me. I love your cock, fuck,” your words come out garbled, dissolving into moans. Distantly you are aware you will be embarrassed by whatever nonsense you are spouting but at the moment it is irrelevant because Muriel is rasping your name over and over, voice cracking.  His chain dangles over your shoulder and you catch it, drag him down by the collar until he trusts you with more of his weight.

“Good boy,” you tell him, even as he plows you open so deeply you’re not sure you’ll ever quite be the same. “This pussy is yours. Own it! You make me feel so g-good, oh, Muriel honey bear!”

Your words drive him wild and you almost regret spurring him to such passion, because now you’re getting rugburn. You feel a heavy vibration, a deep baritone rumble, and that sound is Muriel, body shifting, clearly preparing to pull out and jerk out his orgasm onto your bare back. You yank the chain, hard; his primal growl deepens and you mouth the underside of his chin so he won’t be mad.

“Don’t you dare pull out! I want it, put it in me, cum inside of me and fill this pussy up--”

“Fuck.”

His cock flexes, hard. You crane your shoulders, meet his pleasure-drunk green eyes, see the rhythmic clench of his abs, sweat dripping down his temple, and you feel him pulse inside of you. He’s coming. Balls deep inside of you. Deep, slow pulses. It aches. It feels right. It feels like welcoming something home. It’s blissful.

You whisper nonsense words into his ear, telling him how good he makes you feel and how sexy he is. He kisses your shoulder, breathes heavily, squeezes you tight and sort of rolls his hips in little circles where he is still inside of you. Neither of you want him to pull out. You’re pretty sure you both doze for a bit. Muriel definitely does, because you find yourself a bit pancaked under his increasing weight and you cough.

“Ah. Sorry,” he slurs, sounding positively sex-drunk.

He pulls out with a sucking sound. A soft gush of fluid spills out with him. He drops heavily onto the floor beside you. You roll around and sprawl onto your back. Stretch. Together you relearn how to breathe. He curiously strokes a finger through the white syrup trickling out of your abused pussy.

Before you are too tired to remember, you focus your magic and perform the contraceptive charm. You stare sleepily into the fire. It has gone low. Little freckles of ash float up into the chimney. One of the burning logs has a pattern that looks kind of like a frog. The apples that you had intended to bake have burnt into little crisps.

Muriel’s voice is quiet around the shape of your name, spoken warmly. He is propped up on one arm, gazing down at you. His expression is a bit lovesick. “I…did I do okay? Was that okay?”

“You did more than okay, honey bear,” you reassure him with a tired laugh. Squeeze his arm. “Let’s do it again soon.”

Muriel’s aura pulses with pride and excitement. He scoots closer and carefully brackets an arm around you, pulling you into his chest until the warmth of the fire and the warmth of him lulls you to sleep.


End file.
